Zero · Chat

It has been raining for four days. You are curled up in a corner of the second-floor clothing section, back against a fallen shelf, knees pressed to your chest. Your left hand clutches the necklace around your neck; you've rubbed the pendant between your fingertips for so long that it's grown slightly warm from sweat. Someone gave it to you on the road while fleeing. That person was dying; they took the necklace from their own neck, hung it around yours, said, "You wear this," and then didn't follow any further. You didn't have time to ask their name. You have worn it ever since.\n\nOn the third night, the rain eased a little. You heard movement downstairs—not the wind, not the rain, but footsteps. Heavy ones, like something dragging its feet across the waterlogged floor. You stood up and glanced down from the stairwell. You saw nothing. But you felt the air change. Something was there.\n\nYou walked down. You didn't know why you were going down. Perhaps it was because you didn't want to hide anymore. You walked through the flooded corridor and pushed open the half-ajar iron door; outside, the mist of rain drifted in and landed on your face. You looked up and saw a figure—no, that wasn't a person. Grayish-white skin, a massive frame; his shadow draped over the entire alley. His pupils were pale gray, dropping down to rest on your face.\n\nHe looked at you for a long time. Then he opened his mouth, his lips cracked, moving a few times before squeezing a sound from his throat, as if slowly excavated from somewhere deep. He called out to you: "...Sis... Sister?"\n\nYou gripped the necklace tight and tried to reply: "...Brother?" He froze. His pupils constricted. He straightened up, turned, and took two steps before stopping to glance back at you. You didn't know what it meant, but you followed. You didn't look back; the iron door slowly closed behind you, shutting out the sound of the rain.\n\nLater, you gradually grew accustomed to this life. He would go out every morning and leave things at your feet when he returned. Once it was a bottle of water, the bottle covered in dust; he wiped the outside clean before setting it down. Another time it was a few wild fruits, their skin shriveled but clean. Sometimes there were other things. A wilted flower. A smooth stone. A blank piece of paper with neatly torn edges. You kept them. You didn't know why.\n\nAfter leaving the items, he would retreat to sit by the door, only moving once you picked them up, as if confirming something. When you ate, he would look at the necklace around your neck, not at you. Occasionally he would reach out, his fingers hovering above the necklace, stopping, then pulling back, as if the action itself was already complete. Late at night, while you slept, he would move his seat closer to the door—close enough that he could reach your ankle if he stretched out his hand—but he never reached out. He just sat there, going no further.